My Husband Forced Me to Welcome His Mistress

The crystal chandelier cast dancing shadows across the dining room as Beckett studied me from across the table. His eyes, sharp as surgical scalpels, missed nothing—or so he thought.

"You seem different tonight, Mariah," he said, swirling his scotch. "More... composed."

I took a deliberate sip of wine, letting the rich cabernet coat my tongue. "Do I?"

"It's not like you to be so calm about Ivory's move." He leaned forward, his cufflinks catching the light as he adjusted them—his tell before delivering a blow. "I'm concerned about you."

There it was. The same concern that had once seemed genuine but now rang as hollow as a cheap bell.

"Concerned?" I echoed, keeping my voice soft. "That's sweet of you."

He signaled to the server, who appeared with a glass of water and two small white pills on a silver tray. "These will help with your nerves. Just some vitamins."

The server placed them beside my plate and disappeared. I stared at the pills, my heart hammering against my ribs. Even after all these years, I recognized them instantly—the same sedatives that had started my descent into oblivion in my previous life.

"Take them," Beckett urged, his voice dripping with false tenderness. "They'll make you feel better."

I reached for the pills, my fingers trembling slightly—not from fear, but from rage carefully controlled. As I lifted them to my lips, I palmed them with a sleight of hand I'd practiced mentally a thousand times.

"Water?" I asked innocently.

He nodded, watching as I pretended to swallow the pills with a sip of water. The capsules dissolved against my palm, hidden from his view.

"Good girl," he said, his smile not reaching his eyes. "You'll feel better soon."

I smiled back, thinking of the napkin folded neatly in my lap, the pills now safely tucked inside its folds.

---

The penthouse was silent at 2 AM, Beckett's snores echoing from our bedroom. I slipped out of bed, my bare feet silent against the marble floor.

In the powder room, I carefully extracted the pills from the napkin and sealed them in a ziplock bag. The fluorescent light cast harsh shadows as I studied them—two small white discs that could have been my downfall.

"Not this time," I whispered.

I made my way to Jackson's room, stepping carefully over the creaking floorboard near his door. His desk lamp cast a soft glow across the space as I reached for the copy of "To Kill a Mockingbird" on his shelf—a book I'd given him for his sixteenth birthday.

With practiced movements, I opened the hollowed-out section inside the cover and slipped the bagged pills inside. Evidence. Insurance. Ammunition.

As I closed the book, Jackson stirred in his sleep. "Mom?" he mumbled.

"Just checking on you," I whispered, tucking the blanket around his shoulders.

"Be careful," he murmured, half-asleep.

I kissed his forehead. "Always."

---

The doorbell rang at precisely 10 AM the next morning. I was in the library reviewing financial documents when Presley announced Ivory's arrival.

"She says she's here to measure the drapes, ma'am," my assistant added, her disapproval poorly concealed.

"Send her in," I replied, closing my laptop.

Ivory swept into the room like she already owned it, her Louboutin heels clicking against the hardwood floors. She wore a cream Chanel suit that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent.

"Mariah, darling," she cooed, air-kissing near my cheeks. "I hope you don't mind me dropping by. I wanted to get a head start on making the Hamptons estate feel like home."

"Of course not," I replied smoothly. "Though I believe Beckett mentioned next week for your move-in."

"Oh, I'm just eager." She ran her fingers along the leather-bound books lining the shelves. "After all, it's not every day a woman gets to step into her rightful place."

Her eyes landed on me, calculating and cold. "I do hope you'll be reasonable about this transition. For everyone's sake."

"Reasonable?" I echoed, rising from my chair.

"Let's be honest, Mariah." She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "You're old news. Beckett needs someone who can keep up with him now. Someone younger."

I smiled coldly. "Speaking of young, how is Arlo? I've always found his eye color fascinating—such a unique shade of green. Almost... familiar."

The color drained from her face. "What are you talking about?"

"Nothing." I turned back to my laptop. "Just making conversation."

She left shortly after, her heels clicking rapidly across the marble foyer.

---

"Call the police!" Ivory's voice echoed through the penthouse that evening. "She stole it!"

I found them in the living room—Ivory standing triumphantly beside a trembling Gracie, Beckett watching with narrowed eyes.

"What's happening?" I asked calmly.

"This thief," Ivory pointed at Gracie, "stole my diamond bracelet. I found it in her bag!"

Gracie's eyes were wide with panic. "I didn't take anything!"

"Enough," Beckett said coldly. "Call security."

"Actually," I interrupted, "before you do that, perhaps we should review the security footage."

I pulled out my phone, tapping the screen several times. "Interesting. The cloud backup from ten minutes ago shows something quite... illuminating."

Ivory's face paled as I turned the screen toward them. The footage clearly showed her slipping the bracelet into Gracie's bag when no one was looking.

"Beckett," I said sweetly, "I believe we have a situation."

His eyes darted between Ivory and me, calculation replacing surprise. "This is ridiculous," he snapped at Ivory. "Apologize to Gracie and leave."

As Ivory stormed out, she shot me a look of pure hatred tinged with something else—fear. For the first time, she was seeing me not as a victim, but as a threat.

And she was right to be afraid.